Sunday, November 18, 2012

Editor's note: A different version of this story appeared in the Nov. 10, 2012 edition of the Berkshire Eagle.

Jerry Thundercloud McDonald recalled the first time he entered his clan’s longhouse when he was 12, following the death of his mother.

"It was like watching a moving picture show," he said of the dancing and singing. "I was very inspired to learn about the tribal history of our people."

He recently shared the history of the Mohawk Nation and the Six Nations Iroquois Confederacy through song, dance and storytelling. The versatile singer, storyteller, dancer, choreographer, and actor,
was dressed in traditional costume, which included a headdress and a variety of hide clothing.

McDonald is a member of the Wolf Clan and lives in the Mohawk Nation of Akwesasne, a tribal area along the banks of the St. Lawrence River that straddles upstate New York and the Canadian provinces of Quebec and Ontario.

The longhouse, the center of tribal activity at Akwesasne and elsewhere, is a place of "joy and inspiration" where McDonald learned "a great deal of respect," he said.

McDonald discussed the various traditional instruments used in Mohawk ceremonies, from the water drum, which as the name suggests is filled with water, to the big drum, a moose-hide-covered instrument you can feel in your chest when he beats out a rhythm.

McDonald described how the Great Law of Peace, the oral constitution of the Iroquois Confederacy -- a union of five tribes that some scientists believe dates back close to a thousand years, (a sixth tribe joined the confederation in the 18th century) -- helped inspire the Founding Fathers in their writing of the U.S. Constitution, including the ideas of checks and balances and the separation of powers. Several of the nation’s symbols, including the Eagle holding arrows (look for it on the back of the dollar bill) comes directly from the Iroquois tradition, according to McDonald.

McDonald was also a so-called "skywalker," one of many Mohawk men who have worked in New York City doing skyscraper construction work, scampering along thin steel beams thousands of feet in the air. His last job was on the new Yankee Stadium, he said. He once fell several stories while working and woke up to find he has crushed his left clavicle.

His father, whom he never met was also a skywalker, as had been his father before him.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

John Cowper Powys was happy. He was cold,
but happy. He stood watching the sunrise from his Hillsdale, N.Y. home that
December morning in 1930 taking the moment in.

He and Phyllis Playter, an American he had met in Missouri nearly
a decade earlier and who was 22 years his junior, were now living a
much different life, far from the crowds of New York City and his hectic
schedule. No more crisscrossing the country lecturing on other, much
more famous writers. Now the 58-year-old Powys would be focusing on his
own work in this Utopian setting thanks to the success of his novel
“Wolf Solent.”

Born in Derbyshire, England in 1872, the son of a
vicar, Powys seemed to be destined for the staid life of a country
schoolmaster. By 1904 he was married and a father, but America — and the
freedom from restraint and convention — called.

In the United States, Powys became an itinerant, and
much sought after, lecturer. Over the course of the next two decades he
would speak on a myriad of subjects, from philosophy to politics to
literature, especially literature. During a lecture on the writer Fyodor
Dostoyevsky, where Powys first met Playter, two of the other attendees
allegedly fainted from the sheer sensual power of the presentation.

Powys gave about 10,000 lectures in his career by his
own account and also picked up a number of influential friends and
admirers along the way, including the writers Theodore Dreiser and Henry
Miller.

During his time as a lecturer, Powys also wrote
prodigiously, but didn’t find success until his 1929 novel “Wolf
Solent,” a 900-page epic that became a bestseller, opening the way for
him to take up writing full-time and to move to the hamlet of
Harlemville, which lies in the town of Hillsdale.
In their little farmhouse at the foot of Phudd Hill,
which Powys dubbed “Phudd Bottom,” the couple spent four productive and
happy years. Powys would write two novels, “A Glastonbury Romance” and
“Weymouth Sands,” as well as an autobiography and a book on philosophy:
“A Philosophy of Solitude.”

While Powys was busy with his literary efforts, he
still had time to explore the area and found joy in the county’s flora
and fauna, old farms and his neighbors.
Some of his neighbors, according to at least one
account, thought Powys a bit odd. The writer was idiosyncratic to say
the least. The often disheveled-looking Powys was known to tap his head
against his mailbox in the belief it would ensure the safe delivery of
his mail and he would bow to the rocks and trees on his sojourns.

He was adverse to technology, drawn to the abnormal
and multi-phobic, but to many he was, and remains, an overlooked and
important writer — a “gigantic mythopoeic literary volcano” in the words
of poet Philip Larkin.

For four years Powys made Hillsdale his home. He and
Playter would move to England in 1934 and then to Wales the following
year where Powys remained until his death in 1963, a few months shy of
his 91st birthday. Playter followed him to the grave in 1982.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

John Gaul, lying in his bed in Lakeba with a sore
leg, began to write his life story. After more than 30 years in Fiji he was
once again communicating with his family and his brother had asked him to
relate all that had transpired in the three decades since they had last seen
one another. And what a life it had been.

Gaul left Hudson, N.Y. in 1855, a scrappy 14-year-old full of
wanderlust and a deep sadness over the recent death of his mother. He found his
way to New York City and then sailed to Fall River, Mass., most likely working
for his passage. From there he walked to New Bedford, a 15-mile trek, and
shipped out on a whaler, the Elizabeth, headed to the South Pacific.

The sailor’s life was hard: filled with violence, poor food
and little sleep. Gaul recalled the beatings he took at the hands of the
captain and mates over trivial matters. At one point he was tied to a mast and
whipped for fighting with another crewmember. According to Gaul, the fight
broke out when he sat down to eat before a Portuguese sailor. The man shoved
Gaul out of his seat and Gaul retaliated by slamming a keg of molasses onto the
man’s head, nearly drowning him in the thick fluid as the sailor stumbled around
blindly before finally being freed with the help of several other men.

Gaul gave as good as he got, nearly killing one of the mates
with whom he had an on-going dispute. The mate would beat the boy savagely any
chance he got, but was unfortunate enough to be caught sleeping on his watch by
Gaul who stole some gunpowder, piled it near the man’s head and set it alight,
burning the man’s hair and face.

Gaul, tired of the beatings, jumped ship, was caught,
beaten, and tried again. This time he made his escape by swimming to shore with
a sailor from Pennsylvania. Gaul made it to Upolo, one of the islands that make
up Samoa, then known as the Navigator Islands by westerners, but his friend
wasn’t so lucky. He was killed by sharks as the two made their way to land.

It wasn’t long before Gaul was once again at sea, this time
on a schooner shipping coconut oil. This captain seemed only marginally better
than the first, since he beat Gaul for complaining about being worked too hard
without food or water, but afterward made Gaul a mate, with a $5.00 a month
raise. From there Gaul moved on to another trading vessel plying the waters
between Australia and Fiji.

Gaul eventually settled in Fiji, a group of islands in the
South West Pacific where cannibalism was still practiced at the time. His
descriptions of the custom border on the fantastic and are more likely based on
hearsay than on personal observation.

According to Gaul, the native people would dig up the dead
and feast on their bodies and would steal one another’s children to eat. He
also alleged that Ratu Seru Epenisa Cakobau, who united Fiji under his control
in the 1850s, had an island where he would fatten up his victims before eating
them. The King Of Bau, as he was known, had in fact repudiated the practice of
cannibalism and took up Christianity in 1854, before Gaul settled in Fiji.
While cannibalism was practiced there it was usually reserved for special
occasions, such as the eating of one’s enemies after a battlefield victory, and
the practice died out not long after Gaul’s arrival.

By the 1860s Gaul was married with children — he would
eventually have four — and had taught himself to read and write. He said that
the little schooling he had in Columbia County before he ran away hadn’t stuck.
Gaul held a series of jobs from cotton plantation manager to store clerk, but
continued to be drawn to the sea, often working as a sailor when land-based
jobs dried up.

He was a conundrum when it came to his views of the
aboriginal people of the islands, often describing them as savages, thieves,
and “very saucy” to “whites.” At the same time, he married a native woman and
treated her well, became fluent in the language and seemed to think more highly
of the native people than the missionaries, drunken Europeans and the officials
of the British colonial government installed in 1874 when the country became a
British possession.

At one point he tells of fighting on the side of a tribe
that lived near him against their enemies. Gaul led a charge during a pitched
battle that helped secure victory for his neighbors. The next day the tribe,
celebrating their success, invited Gaul to the festivities, but he refused and
when they left gifts at his doorstep he sent them back.

Gaul was very protective of his wife and children and fought
both whites and natives on several occasions when he thought his family’s honor
was being trampled. He obviously loved his wife a great deal and described how
when a letter from his father eventually reached him, his wife memorized it and
would recite it to her children before bed. She, along with thousands of other
native people, died from a measles epidemic that struck the islands in the
1870s. Gaul never remarried.

Ten years later Gaul finally wrote home and his personal
history may have remained merely correspondence between two long-separated
siblings, but for a writer named William Drysdale.

Drysdale was a roving reporter for the New York Times when
he received Gaul’s narrative, possibly from Michael Gaul, and published a series
of articles in the summer of 1890 on John Gaul’s life. Drysdale was a
distinguished newsman during the boom years of the industry in the mid-1800s
who started his career at the New York Sun before finding his way to the Times
where he remained for two decades. He would eventually become a well-known (at
the time) children’s book author.

In 1888, two years before Gaul’s story was eagerly being
read at breakfast tables across the country — the story ended up in newspapers
as far away as California — he returned to New York, 35 years after he left,
and was reunited with his father and two brothers.

Gaul was uncomfortable with life in America, telling
Drysdale that he never should have left Fiji where “as long as you lived you
knew where your dinner was coming from, and when you were dead you did not
care.” It was unclear whether Gaul ever returned to the land where he had spent
so much of his life, thousands of miles from the country he had left behind as
a child.

About Me

I'm an artist and writer. My first book, "Gilded Age Murder & Mayhem in the Berkshires," came out in October 2015. My second book, "Hudson Valley Murder & Mayhem" will be out June 26, 2017. I'm the co-founder of Fellow Well Met, an online shop specializing in vintage, handcrafted & fine men’s accessories, which launched in April 2016. Andrew Amelinckx